Terra Incognita
by Sensoo
Summary: A compilation of strange pairings. Each chapter is a self-contained oneshot, unless otherwise noted or requested.
1. The Games We Play

A/N: So I'm finally putting up what I've been sitting on for the past few months. Other writing (fiction, original) has been taking up my time, along with real life. Etc. Etc.

I would like to say, the inspiration to write a bunch of crack!pairings came from callalili's excellent _Flotilla_ piece and the mass kink archive.

Some of the stories are smutty, some are dark, some are chaste and maybe even sweet. Shepard varies from story to story.

I welcome suggestions, but this is not going to update nearly as fast as _A Matter of Perspective_.

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Disclaimer: Mass Effect does not belong to me, etc.

* * *

Short and pretty inoffensive: Kasumi/Thane

* * *

She wasn't lying when she told Shepard that Thane was not her type. She likes humans; she loves Keji, thank you very much. She isn't looking for a new future dead boyfriend.

But after hearing about his performance in the Dantius Towers, Kasumi can't resist the challenge. This is why she is crawling through one of the Normandy's surprisingly large ventilation shaft, the one between Port Observation and Life Support.

Oh God, she is a nosy neighbor. How suburban. How vulgar. How plebian. She is becoming her mother. But for the first time in years, Kasumi feels normal. It is disconcerting. Especially since she is wedged in a half-meter wide tunnel, peering through a grate at her alien assassin neighbor. He wears skintight black very well, she has to admit as she watches him meditate. The jewel-tone greens and pinks of his skin mark him as exotic, and while Kasumi has always been adventurous in her career, she prefers something a little closer to home when it comes to lovers.

She can probably slip down that tunnel over by the medbay and end up in the armory. And if she is really lucky, Jacob will be working shirtless. Because it gets so hot on these climate-controlled ships, right?

Gah. Kasumi watches him, waiting for him to do something exciting. It is exactly like Samara really, sit there and do nothing. He is probably sleeping, which leaves her feeling vaguely stalker-ish as she hovers overhead, watching him.

It isn't like she is thinking about his well-defined muscles that can be seen right through his skintight suit, or that too-throaty but somehow sexy way his voice rumbles, or even just how strong and flexible he is…

_Baka_, she exhales sharply.

One big inky black eye shot open, and then the other. Kasumi curses inwardly and begins backing up, even as his gaze turns to the grating.

Busted.

She tumbles backward out of her end, into her room and hastily replaces the painting over the vent. Clumsy. Amateur. Juvenile. She rushes to the bar, intent on looking busy, or mysterious. She even pours two drinks, just in case.

And she waits. And waits. For _hours_.

But nothing happens, except those two drinks and their numerous successors are gone.

Kasumi is master enough to know he knows it was her. Anyone else would have made a lot more noise. She tries to picture Garrus, all plates and claws, trying not to clank against the metal shaft. It makes her giggle.

He knows. But it seems he doesn't care. It isn't like she came in on him with his pants down or anything. And if she had, she would only have looked out of purely scientific curiosity. Nothing more. Truly.

* * *

A cycle passes, then three. Nothing has happened. No mention of voyeurism, or funny looks in the mess hall, or even visits from Shepard explaining the importance of privacy. But Kasumi isn't some shrinking violet or shy schoolgirl. She is a master thief and she enjoys, no, savors challenges.

Thane caught her last time. This time, he won't, she tells herself as she climbs into the vent, taking the long way around.

Kasumi is used to awkward contortions. Long ago she appropriated the schematics of the Normandy SR-2 and she has studied them religiously, to keep her mind sharp. She knows there is another shaft she can access, one that goes all the way down to engineering and comes up at the foot of his desk. He might expect her to reuse the old entry, but that will not do. Kasumi will get the drop on him and then she'll let go of this foolish obsession because that is all it is. Professional rivalry. A test of skills. A competition so stealthy, there has been no formal announcement to go along with it. You're either in and you know it, or you're left eating dust.

Maneuvering past air exchanges, massive fans, and evaporators is tricky. Not all of them are marked since other crewmates have made some of their own upgrades. It takes her four hours to get there.

She is almost detected by the krogan – Grunt's sense of smell is keener than most. But she moves fast and he isn't nearly interested enough in pursuing a lone out of place human scent on a human vessel. And suddenly she's there, at the base of his desk, with a spectacular view of the baseboards. No Thane in sight. Craning her neck, she does a visual check. Nothing. And then she uses her omni-tool. Nada, he's not there, which is weird because she knows the shuttle hasn't left on any missions and Shepard hasn't summoned any of them for a debriefing.

And then she sees movement.

The grating, the one she had been in last time, moves. And slick like an oiled shadow, Thane slides out with grace she envies, and carefully replaces the metal cover.

His face is very expressive and he looks puzzled, almost frustrated. She suppresses a smirk. And then he drops to his knees by the door, checking that vent, and her heart stops.

That's where he was. He was checking her room. And she wasn't there.

Busted again. Almost.

She backpedals again, taking dark turns around the third floor, even as the sound of metal plates being moved echoes tinny in the distance.

The shaft vibrates slightly. He's following her in.

Adrenaline begins to pound in her chest. Kasumi smiles as she makes a u-turn over Miranda's office, pausing to listen to the Cerberus loyalist's comments. There's a fan off to the right, it will disguise her presence while she decides her next move.

"…Shepard uncooperative…Understood - with all due respect…should have let me input that control chip…I don't have that kind of relationship with her….Understood…"

Miranda Lawson is always stuffed to the brim with secrets. It's amazing that skintight suit will hold them all. And speaking of skintight suits…

She drops to the engineering deck, taking a detour to check the surveillance cameras. She could activate her cloak, but in such close quarters he would sense her. She'll do it later. It's not cheating, it's playing to win.

Zaeed is not in the cargo bay. Curious. It seems she has set a trend of exploration. She'll find out what he is up to later. The walls are humming. Thane is on this deck. Time to move, and be careful to avoid the cooling coils this time – they burn like frostbite.

She climbs to the second floor. The CIC shafts are less convoluted, and it's a bad place to hide, but she has an idea. She finds the appropriate tunnel and braces her arms and legs against the sides and pushes, going up up up.

Sweat beads on her neck. It is a long climb, one she has not yet attempted. One she would have preferred to take her time planning. As it stands, it's a gambit she thinks will throw Thane off. She presses on, knowing the area might be occupied, that her hard work and effort will be for nothing. If she is caught, she will have a lot of trouble explaining herself. It is such a gamble.

She feels _alive_.

She doesn't hear him any more. She might have lost him back on the CIC. It doesn't matter. Her thighs cramp a little, and her muscles are tight from being confined for so long. Still she pushes onward, still going up, knowing that if she falls, well, there might be a bad smell in the system that the air exchange will never get rid of.

And her reputation will never live any of this down.

But she reaches it, because she's Kasumi Goto and she's the _best_. Scanning the room, she finds it empty. She activates her cloak and unscrews the vent lid. With flourish, she silently rolls out onto Shepard's carpet, taking a moment to admire the Spectre's ship collection and fish. Then she replaces the cover, slips into the private restroom, and deactivates the cloak.

Her veil is crooked. Her makeup is smudged. Her hair is frizzy.

She does what repairs she can, and activates the cloak, sliding out of the restroom – surveillance cameras will reveal Shepard's room is haunted… But only if she doesn't steal the footage first. Another problem for another time.

Kasumi pushes the elevator button and waits.

It comes quickly to Shepard's room, and Kasumi is a little impressed. Once in the elevator, she deactivates her cloak.

Heh. She exhales in relief and not a little triumph.

And then the ceiling of the elevator starts to move. A large tile is pushed aside and a blur of green and black drops through the hole. She backs up against the wall as Thane rises from his knees. He crosses his arms and leans against the other wall, regarding her carefully.

Kasumi is glad the hood covers most of her face. Her lips are pressed firmly together, but her eyes are wide and round. He _is_ good.

"That was…invigorating," Thane says after a moment, reaching up to replace the tile.

"Yes, yes it was," Kasumi doesn't bother to deny it. Even if she wants to.

"Was there…a reason? Was this just for the challenge?"

Kasumi stares at him. "I thought it would be fun."

He angles his head to the side, blinking very slowly as he studies her carefully. "You were right."

The elevator dings and they step off at the third floor.

"Come in for a drink?" She invites on an impulse. Professional courtesy of course, and he must be thirsty. She is.

"That would be…most welcome," he says hesitantly, but follows her in.

They are very similar, Kasumi is surprised to realize as Thane talks about Irikah. He has one of those moments where he slips into perfect recall. Kasumi is envious. Keji's gray box is wonderful and the mingling of both their memories is a experience she can't quite describe. But it does not capture the moment the same way, she does not experience it like she did the first time.

She almost wishes he had a little gray box she could steal. It would be vivid and wild and intimate. The thought is very wrong, because she has Keji and she doesn't need anyone else right now. She will fall in love again, but he will be human, and she will never love him as much as she loved Keji.

"Your paramour, you keep him close," Thane doesn't look at the spot where she keeps the box, but Kasumi suspects he already knows.

"Humans don't have eidetic memory. But I have the next best thing." She smiles, not for him, but for Keji, and sips her liquor.

"I'm dying," he says, sounding unsure.

"I know." Because she is Kasumi and she knows all of what goes on around the ship. She doesn't need the mechanical aids Miranda uses. All her intel is HUMINT. "I'm sorry," she adds a moment later. "You seem nice."

His laugh is not a nice one. "My son would say otherwise."

Her ears perk up. So the rumors are true. She'd heard about two drell assassins on the Citadel. What were the odds they were related? Shepard thrives on coincidences, or maybe the Spectre is just that good. Kasumi isn't sure.

"I can only tell you what I've observed. You loved her very much. I know how that feels." Her secrecy is pathological, but Kasumi cannot bring herself to lie to this man. Like Shepard, he has earned her respect.

The admission surprises her.

"I had heard…well, I never asked for the details. But I had heard that your trip with Shepard was more than a simple heist. But it is not my place to pry."

So she tells him about Keji, that age-old ballad of love and revenge. They'd been partners, in everything. And when she lost him, she'd lost half of soul. Parts of you don't always grow back, Kasumi knows this. The gray box is her prosthetic, her crutch.

And they sit there, graceful in their awkwardness. They both know how useless words are when it comes to comfort, so they talk about meaningless things, like Chambers' infatuation with anything that moves, and Shepard's pet varren.

Social niceties are…pleasant sometimes, Kasumi reflects as she sits beside him.

Too soon he is rising, a little less coordinated than usual, but it is a slip up only someone like her would notice, and she is too professional to mention it.

She almost asks him to stay.

She likes him, she realizes, as he bids her goodbye, staring at her for a fraction too long, committing her to his memory. She likes him a lot. He is like her, but different enough to be intriguing. He is kind, and resourceful, and leaves her feeling calm. Except when they are alone in the dark, he makes her blood rush, her heart pound. He hunts and she plays.

A troubling epiphany rises to the surface. She really could love him.

That is why Kasumi will not visit him again. She has that much self-control. He is dying and she cannot love a dying man. She cannot meld so fully with another only to lose him again. Kasumi is broken enough on Keji, and she knows it. Thane would shatter her.

Biting her lip, Kasumi clutches the gray box, hooking it into her omni-tool. The comfort Keji brings is hollow compared to the presence of a real living body. But it is better than letting another man tear another jagged hole in her heart.

* * *

A/N: I still don't know if I like this one. It's short and kind of depressing. I sort of want to write a sequel to it, but I don't know. I don't see them working out.


	2. Not Quite a Loyalty Mission

A/N: This one gave me tons of trouble. I've been sitting on it for months. In fact, it's the one that held this whole thing up. I like it and I don't, but I'm a seething mass of neuroses, hoorah! Grrr...

* * *

The Illusive Man/Renegade! Femshep: Dark and a bit dirty. I'll call it "M" to be safe.

Hints of Garrus/Renegade! Femshep

* * *

He had known he couldn't trust her to fall in line for him, not like Miranda, but he'd funneled billions into her reconstruction nonetheless. He knew about her contact with the Prothean beacon and her crusade against the Reapers. He knew all about Torfan, and some choice bits about her personal history that even the Alliance didn't have on file. Shepard was something of an obsession for him.

Back before that whole affair with the Citadel, she'd caught his eye when she'd slaughtered all those Batarians. It sent a message, not just to the four-eyed bastards, but to the rest of the galaxy. Humans were not to be taken lightly and they weren't afraid to make their own stand.

It was a gesture he admired for its cool efficiency and diplomatic acumen. Initially he thought it a lucky accident, the work of someone who didn't understand battle tactics. He expected her to emerge a broken shell, stricken with PTSD and instability - someone whose guilt would never let her see the bigger picture. Her claims of sentient ships and ancient conspiracies sounded more like the ravings of a madwoman. Her promotion as first human Spectre could be dismissed as a political bone thrown to the Alliance. But she found Cerberus operations. She destroyed the clumsy ones and treated every mission with the same brutal efficiency he'd witnessed on Torfan. And when she'd sacrificed her lover on Virmire, but saved the asari-led Council… He'd known beyond the shadow of doubt she was brilliant.

Aliens flocked to her, and followed her into victory. She was a sign of the times, of what could be. She was unpolished and carried herself like a thug, but her demeanor belied her strategies. She hadn't the subterfuge to be the Illusive Woman, but she was more than just a figurehead to lead humanity. She was the best humanity had to offer and others fell in line because they recognized that. Other species fell in line because they recognized that.

Miranda was jealous, though she denied it. But Miranda was beautiful, brilliant, and infused with a potent mixture of ambition, self-loathing, and loneliness that made her disgustingly easy to manipulate. He knew all her buttons, from the ones in her head, to the one between her legs that brought her screaming and writhing beneath him.

He didn't trust her. He didn't trust any of the women who fascinated him enough to be bedded more than once. But he knew she was his creature, and as long as he gave her what she needed, she would be loyal. He knew how to get under her skin, how to make her love and loathe him at the same time.

Shepard was a different story.

He was not unattractive for his age, but he knew she wouldn't just fall for a pretty face or a tight ass, despite her relationship with Lieutenant Alenko. He was very powerful, some women got off on that alone, but she was a force to be reckoned with, and she knew precisely what she was worth and what she was capable of. His power would not bring her over. And so what he had on her, other than a multi-trillion credit black-ops organization and his own glorious view of a dying star, was his cunning and his machinations.

She was an asset. The queen on his chessboard. The human trump card.

That was all. That was it. There was nothing more.

Oh, and she had a great ass.

* * *

"Surveillance…Lawson…AI…sequestered data…" Garrus and Tali were talking, but Shepard had heard all she needed to.

And to be honest, she wasn't surprised in the least.

Mordin and Tali had extracted surveillance tech - bugs, programs, cameras – from her quarters. Tali and Garrus had systematically removed what they could in the private areas of the ship. But someone was replacing them. Someone with a skintight bodysuit and the Illusive Man's arm jammed up her ass making her sing the Cerberus theme song.

Miranda was reading Shepard's messages.

Tali, Garrus, and Shepard were reading, intercepting, and modifying Miranda's messages. And Shepard kept a close eye on her crew.

Yeoman Chambers bore watching. Her notes – psych profiles – were especially interesting. The stark technical jargon and harsh but accurate observations clashed with Chambers' pleasant persona. The girl didn't get her position as ship shrink (and chief Shepard-watcher) by being sweet and effervescent. Come to think of it, she was probably reading Shepard's messages too. It seemed that no one onboard understood the concept of "private terminal."

* * *

Save the universe. Advance human interests. Recruit elite aliens to do the dirty work. It was a simple enough plan – she'd done it before, with less funding and a weaker body. It was a sad day when Commander Shepard, N7 marine of the Systems Alliance had to rely on aliens over human aid. Racism wasn't the source of the sentiment – it was personal: years of stellar service, of history, of loyalty were all for nothing. Cerberus rebuilt her stronger than before, and as far as Mordin or Chakwas could tell, they hadn't installed any fail-safe or behavioral protocols. Never mind what Williams said on Horizon, brainwashing wasn't even an option. Shepard always looked at the end result. (Williams lived because the bomb had to go off. Kaidan died because the bomb had to go off. Whether or not she loved him never factored into the equation. It was that simple.)

Shepard found she trusted the aliens more. They didn't have a human complex – as a species (and politically), humanity was a loud brash teenager. _Boohoo, no one respects us. Boohoo, we make sacrifices and the Council yanks us around. Boohoo, the aliens are all against us._ They weren't necessarily wrong, but they were goddamned whiners who needed to suck it up and deal. No one liked a crybaby. The aliens in her crew (with the exception of teenaged Grunt) didn't have anything to prove. They knew what was at stake and they knew the importance of the mission. No grumbling about speciesism or whatever the fuck politically correct issue some idiot was pushing that week. They did their jobs well and they didn't spout a load of bullshit. It was refreshing really.

Garrus stood at her right hand, Tali at her left. If walking through fire to find Saren hadn't cemented their loyalty, the recent missions had. Tali still held her place on with the Fleet. Sidonis was dead. She would have killed him herself, but that was Garrus's prerogative. They would go to hell and back for her. It was odd, these stirrings of affection, fierce and tight around her heart. She would never say so, but the ties went both ways.

She had never been a paragon of virtue. She'd made her reputation at Torfan and no one would mistake her for anything but a consummate pragmatist. Cerberus's morally reprehensible actions didn't bother her – it was their flagrant irresponsibility and blind fanaticism. Two years ago, their inefficiency and to some degree, their hypocrisy (thorian creepers, rachni slaves, thresher maw experiments – for a pro-human group they certainly were obsessed with alien lifeforms), irritated her. Shepard didn't take too kindly to people shooting at her.

She was even less patient with people who played her.

* * *

Chakwas had reminded her that she could have her scars fixed in the medbay. The doctor knew better than to repeat the feel-good bullshit about thinking positive. Shepard would have bet a quad that Chambers had something to do with that claptrap. Shepard declined both options. She had built a reputation on intimidation and brutality. She should damn well look the part. Why waste the platinum? She and Garrus could be a matched set. Add Massani's ugly mug and every merc group in the Terminus systems would piss their armor rusty.

* * *

A cold fury settled like a stone in her gut. The pieces of everything were coming together now, falling into place quickly, perfectly, a monstrous gestalt. Shepard berated herself for not seeing it sooner. She'd been outmaneuvered and badly.

"I know that look, Shepard." Garrus lingered by her empty fish tank, pretending to admire its ambient light. "When that hardness comes into your eyes, a lot of people end up dying." His tone was careless, flamboyant, but his gaze remained on her face.

"We are crossing through the Omega Relay, Garrus." She sipped the wine he brought her, more out of politeness than appreciation. Her old comrades had earned a grudging measure of respect and civility, in private of course. In front of those she did not trust, everyone was treated with equal brusqueness. "A lot of people are going to die, no matter what I do."

He tilted his head back. "If that's your motivational speech, you're going to need to work on it some more."

She made a rude noise and stared at the wall.

"It was that bad, huh?" Garrus's mandibles flared as he turned to look at her.

"This has nothing to do with you," she said curtly. "I blew off some steam and now I have things to consider."

If he was a lesser man or a softer one, like Kaidan Alenko, Garrus might have been offended. "Do you want me to leave?"

"If you keep talking, yes." Shepard crossed her legs and leaned back on her couch.

"I'll be here if you need me," Garrus said, and seated himself at her desk, browsing the extranet with practiced silence.

Shepard glowered at her empty fish tank and wondered how well he handled a gun. Those implants in his eyes weren't just for show. The Illusive Man had not survived this long by being weak. But right now, the idea of tearing out those shiny blue eyes and squeezing them between her fingers, it made her very happy inside.

She'd gotten very good at that on Torfan. Batarians took a lot of pride in the number of their eyes. Once upon a time, Shepard had loved her family very much… Mindoir was another world, two or three lifetimes ago. Torfan only slightly less distant. But there were still batarians everywhere. Idly, she wondered if her fingers remembered how to execute that maneuver.

She tapped them together, flexing each segment. Reflex flowed through her knuckles and they popped loudly, lacking the sound of slimy jelly, crushed lens, and screaming batarian.

There were some things she would _never_ forget.

Shepard still didn't have the perfect fix on the Illusive Man's angle. And for someone she'd never met, she spent far too much time thinking about him. Even with the surveillance equipment in her quarters disabled, Shepard still felt his presence here, from the insignia on her uniform to the tiny logo stamped on the tiles of her floor. Cerberus was everywhere, and she could not forget it. She would be a fool to do so.

He was cunning, brutal, and did what had to be done. Shepard respected that. Polished and smooth like the best of politicians. Ruthless and resourceful like the best military leaders. He wound his lies so tightly with truth, she couldn't separate them, so she was forced to accept them at face value and then spend long nights unweaving his work. She was smart, but he might just be smarter. Where she lacked subtlety and finesse, he glided right through. Where Shepard was a butcher, he was a surgeon. Oh, she could see to the heart of the matter, she understood military tactics and intimidation. But he constructed complex gambits, engineering long-term contingency plans for just about everything. The Collectors were maddening enough, but staying one step ahead of the Illusive Man grated on her nerves.

Where was that dying sun he seemed so fond of? EDI was calculating the coordinates for her, without Miranda's knowledge of course. The Cerberus-hired crew was gone, and Miranda could only spy on so many people at once. Her "second-in command" would be too busy focusing on just what Garrus was doing in her room to monitor all of EDI's processes.

"You all right, Shepard?"

"My throat isn't closing," she said. "And obviously yours isn't either."

He laughed off her vitriol and shook his head. "Just checking."

She was Shepard. Not a copy. Not a facsimile. Not a half-souled clone. Two years and cutting edge tech did not change this. Death did not change this. Having found it once, painful and alone, it wasn't quite the bête noire it had once been.

She hadn't changed, but Williams and Liara had. Wrex had given a warmer reception than both of them and he was a goddamn krogan.

The Illusive Man had to know this of course. He knew bringing her back as Cerberus would isolate her, maybe make her more amenable to persuasion. She had never been a paragon of virtue. Shepard made her reputation doing what had to be done. No one mistook her for anything less than a consummate pragmatist. Selecting her new team, surrounding her with Cerberus loyalists and adding a few Normandy crewmen – either to emphasize her old team's betrayal or try to lull her into a sense of complacency.

He knew the quarians would be at Freedom's Progress. He may have even suspected Tali would be among them. Given Cerberus's relations with the Migrant Fleet, he may have been counting on Tali to renounce Shepard.

The wine was bitter on her tongue. Tali'Zorah vas Normandy might have hated Cerberus, but she trusted Shepard, even if the Commander was sending her to her death. Tali may not have come to her right away, but she did eventually, and Shepard of all people understood that sometimes the mission came before personal feelings.

Omega. Virmire. Torfan.

Contrary to William's assertions, she had not forgotten what Cerberus did. But she had less trouble accepting things like that – war, death, reality. Cerberus's carelessness made humanity look bad. After all, if it was going to produce things like Jack, it should have made them more…functional. They were too frivolous with their power and money and their xenophobia irritated her to no end. Their big picture was an impossible idiocy. Humanity wasn't strong enough to dominate the galaxy, and forcing themselves to be would only mark them like the krogan and the rachni.

And his flagrant attempts to manipulate her infuriated her. The worst part, she admitted grudgingly, was that he was good at it. Jacob had been Cerberus's answer to Kaidan. He was Kaidan 2.0 in another color with less angst. He was a trap, moreso because he didn't even realize it. Jacob could be manipulated, and by extension Shepard, or so the idea went.

Shepard might have loved Kaidan, once upon a time, because he was everything she wasn't. She might have loved him as a conscience, as a reminder of what was good in humanity, as a man on a pedestal, but she had known it would not last. Back then it didn't matter because she hadn't expected to walk away from Sovereign alive. After Horizon, Shepard had almost made the same mistake twice.

The thing that held her back, restored her focus, was the wild card the Illusive Man hadn't counted on. (Legion didn't count because she didn't trust them either. Grunt didn't count because strongest krogan or not, he had the brain power of a varren). Garrus had waltzed back in, adjusted her perspective, and reminded her exactly what needed to be done.

Oh, the look on Miranda's face had been priceless. Garrus had replayed the video footage salvaged from his scanner. Shock and then anger twisted Miranda's smug little expression and Shepard knew that someone had dropped the ball on intelligence.

She won that one by default.

The Illusive Man thought he was playing with run-of-the-mill Alliance soldiers. Williams hadn't taken any of this well. Undoubtedly Kaidan wouldn't have either. The bastard understood humans. He knew she would be vulnerable, especially if alone after two years. But he failed to understand the rest of her squadmates and there was her slight advantage. That, and his fuckup with Archangel. He'd never intended to give her back any of her old crew. Tali was a late suggestion and he probably assumed the young quarian girl had the least amount of influence. He'd badmouthed Liara first chance he'd gotten, alienated the quarians as best as he could, and made damn certain the Alliance didn't trust her. He gave her no news of Wrex either, something that would have been easy for him to find. Did he expect her to forget the rest of her people?

Jack had been a slap in the face. A shiny bear trap in minefield – the message was pretty clear: look who else rabidly despises Cerberus - do you want to be like _her_? The second part of that was just as odious: if Jack traveled with Shepard, they might have an easier time acquiring the biotic down the road.

The Collector ship debacle was the final insult. She'd mistakenly assumed that the Illusive Man respected her intelligence. Withholding critical information because he was worried she'd compromise his gambit was too much. She'd respected his intellect – even if she didn't agree with his methods. She reported back to him as a courtesy between…allies; it was a formality really with Miranda on board. Believing she would be the weak link in his plan was too much. He had brought her back. He could damn well let her do her job.

Betrayal, she understood. Necessity. Sacrifice. Whatever he wanted to call it.

But the fact he thought she would give away the ruse… That pricked her pride. Shepard was no stranger to black ops, subterfuge, and counterintelligence. He thought she would compromise the mission? Bullshit. Either he respected her enough to let her run her own galaxy-saving mission, or he didn't – and if he didn't, why would spend so much on the Lazarus Project? Oh, he knew she could return from the Collector ship, warned or not about its trap. But he wanted to toy with her, to make her sweat, to see her jump through hoops.

He wanted to remind her that even from far away, he could still fuck with her. That even if she was The Illustrious Commander Shepard: Savior of the Citadel, he still held the power. This was her suicide mission and his ego trip.

The Collectors she could handle. Point and shoot till they stop moving and shut the hell up. The Illusive Man wasn't so simple. The bastard had gotten under her skin, thrown her off balance with a betrayal any rookie could have seen a mile away. Of course the Reaper ship had been a goddamned trap. That ship was cursed, an albatross around her neck, a massive gaping blindspot that any sane creature could step right through; she had to personally blow it to bits just to get some peace of mind.

Shepard fumed throwing back the last of the wine and glowering at the wall consoles. It was a cold rage, one that would last long and carry her through the battle with the Collectors, because make no mistake, she was coming back, and she would deal with the Illusive Man appropriately.

"Commander," EDI's voice echoed in her room. "We are approaching the Collector base."

Growling, Shepard straightened her collar, smoothed back her hair, and forced a level calm back onto her face. She was commander. She had a ship to run and a galaxy to save.

Rubbing the scratches on her arms, she glanced at Garrus. He sensed her gaze and looked up, flashing an awkward turian smile.

"After the Collectors, he's next," Shepard said.

Garrus's smile turned predatory. He didn't have to ask who or what she meant.

* * *

Half her crew was a Reaper slushie. The rest she'd sent back with Mordin – he was good at protecting large groups of panicked and injured civilians. The second fire team consisted of Morinth, Miranda, and Jacob. The fire team. The decoys.

Letting "Samara" lead was a tactical disaster, but not a mistake.

The galaxy did not need an ardat-yakshi. Shepard did not need Cerberus operatives.

* * *

Disabling his security was easy enough for their quarian hacker. Tali relished the job. And Garrus, the way he laughed made her bare her teeth, filling her with something primal. Fucking turians. The remnants of her crew, the ones who chose her over Cerberus, covered their flank.

The ones who hadn't?

Shepard had been willing to let them go, save for one. That one knew too much and played too many games. Yeoman Chambers did not leave the Normandy in one piece.

* * *

She left Garrus and Tali alone outside the door to the Illusive Man's chambers.

He was standing when she came in, facing that burning red star, and when he turned to look at her, his eyes glowed geth-blue. She wondered then what technology he had managed to reverse engineer or if he had traded for it, done business with the Collectors.

"You destroyed the base," he growled at her, pinching a cigarette between his fingers. "You destroyed it. Why? And don't give me that bullshit about humanity losing its soul or some other PR you fed your crew. You're far too practical to buy that."

Shepard laughed, enjoying the feel of his rage, his impotence. He stalked forward, glowering at her.

"Well?"

No questions as to why she was here or what she intended to do. He was still hung up on that goddamn Reaper construct.

"Because I knew it would make you squirm," she said, smirking. Her teeth were perfect, straighter and whiter than they'd been before. Wilson's vanity, or so she heard.

"You…" he gaped at her incredulously. "You…what?"

"Obviously you think I'm some kind of idiot," Shepard offered, that smirk cemented on her face. "Making me jump through hoops, feeding me bad intel to see how I react, putting spies in my midst."

Shepard tossed something at his feet. It was pink and wet and slick. He stared at it.

"Chamber's tongue. I heard you had some affection for it. If I'd known it was that easy to shut her up, I would have done it ages ago."

He said nothing. She savored it.

"So you've gone mad," he said slowly after a time. "The human mind can't handle resurrection, I see."

"Wrong again," Shepard said and she walked over to the bar, deliberately picking through his stash. She found a particularly rare and smooth whiskey that she would have never been able to afford on her Spectre/Alliance salary and poured them both a glass.

The Illusive Man quirked a brow, unsure of where this was going.

"I blew up the base for a number of reasons, all of them practical. I also hacked into their computers and downloaded a great deal of interesting information. Did you know the vorrcha are an offshoot of a Reaper reengineered race? They used to be peace-loving tree-dwellers or something equally quaint." She smiled beatifically at him.

* * *

The Illusive Man took a large swallow, processing exactly what she was saying.

The tech was not lost. And Shepard had it.

"The base was falling apart. It might have been fascinating to study, but we had no way of securing it, of guaranteeing the Reapers couldn't use it against us. I took their knowledge and destroyed their construct. I suspect they don't realize I have the former."

This changed a lot of things.

He sipped his scotch.

"And I suppose you're here to tell me everything," he drawled, fingers brushing a concealed panic button.

"Not everything, and don't bother. We've rerouted the security protocols," she said without inflection.

He smiled politely, knowing it was time to sit still and listen.

* * *

"Tim, can I call you that? Unless you're willing to divulge your real name. The Illusive Man is more of a mouthful than you'll ever be, save for some kind of sick krogan implant. Hmm, I wonder if you've already researched that one, Timmy…"

She watched him twitch slightly, the way his chin jerked and his shoulders tightened. Chambers' notes had been very helpful.

"Do as you like," Tim said.

Shepard laughed. Like he could stop her. She leaned in, hearing him suck in a breath, feeling his pulse quicken under her fingers, his strange pupils did not dilate, but she'd read Chambers' personal diaries on him. She knew, in theory, how he would be in bed, and how to use that against him.

So she told him what she wanted him to know, things he probably already knew, with hints of useful information sprinkled between the lines. The Reapers were coming. They needed labs to reverse-engineer the tech. They needed an army. Maybe she trusted the Alliance a little more than she trusted Cerberus. Maybe she'd consider another alliance with Cerberus with renegotiated terms. Maybe she trusted the Council. But maybe both erstwhile allies would jump at her beck and call if she brought them Cerberus.

He wanted to fuck with her?

Fine. But Shepard wouldn't lay there and take it like a bitch. She'd give as good as she got. Ideas, cruel and twisted and maybe just a little exciting, streamed through her mind. She had been Cerberus's tool. Chambers speculated on the nature of Timmy's obsession with Shepard. She would never trust him, but she could still use him. Unlike with her crew, sentimentality and a kind gesture would not earn her his loyalty. Shepard had to give him something no one else could. There had to be a reason he would bend to her demands. She contemplated it for a moment, under his alien gaze. She was reminded of Zaeed. Of Samara. She spared the first, and destroyed the latter. Tim had good odds, but it was a matter of loyalty and failing that, necessity.

In the seconds of that it took for her to make up her mind, she wondered if she was making a terrible mistake.

"What next Shepard? Do you kill me and present my head on a platter to the Alliance? Buy back your commission in blood?"

"Tempting," she admitted. Cerberus of old had three heads. Not for the first time did she wonder if Timmy was a stalking horse. She ran a bare finger against his throat.

"Or do you have something else in mind?" His voice was rougher and she could feel him tensing.

"Yes," she said, and slapped him across the face. "Now get on your knees."

He went down faster than she would have liked, but he put a respectable fight, for someone getting what he had always wanted. She bit back a laugh as she ground her boot into his sternum, watching him flail beneath her. Yes, this was what he always wanted, maybe just not how he thought he'd get it.

When he was bruised, and defeated, and panting on the floor, Shepard began undoing her armor seals.

* * *

Sweat beaded on his brow and glared at her defiantly. It would have been a lot more convincing if he wasn't so hard.

"You're fucking that turian," he hissed as she pinned his shoulders to the ground. She regarded him coolly, like a science experiment, a bystander, a _nobody_. It made his blood boil.

"Oh yeah, he's a great lay," Shepard laughed as she rode him. "Jealous?" Imperious and in control, Shepard held him there, unmoved by their coupling. She could have been calibrating guns, or hacking a console, or mining for resources. Maybe all of the above.

"You're sick, Shepard," he groaned as she squeezed him with her tight inner muscles.

"Maybe, but that turns you on, doesn't it?" she mocked, her expression infuriating in its serenity.

He growled and lunged forward, throwing her back onto the ground. Still inside her, he tried pinning her arms down, sinking his teeth into her neck. She swore and twisted, rolling him beneath her.

"Bad Timmy," she rumbled, licking her lips, and the fight within him died. "You love it, the sheer depravity of it all. That's why you hired Chambers. She'd spread for anything, and let you watch."

"Chambers was a slut," he agreed.

"And that's what you liked about her you sick hypocrite." Shepard's fingers tangled in his hair and yanked his head back, exposing his throat. "It's almost too perfect, the head of Cerberus is a closet xenophile."

"Fuck you."

"Sure am." Her answer was predictable, but it excited him nonetheless. "So I wonder, did you get Lawson to do this for you too? What'd she like? Batarians? Turians? Krogans maybe?"

The image, all shameful and rough made his hips buck.

"You liked that," she murmured, licking his nipples. "Just like you love what I'm doing to you now."

He gritted his teeth, the scorn in her words making his blood course faster. Yeah. Maybe. Fine. She might have had a point. The Cerberus mentality reassured him: he'd gotten what he wanted. Right now he was fucking the Savior of the Citadel on the floor of his office, it didn't matter how he got here.

* * *

When he finished, and she didn't, she smirked and pulled herself off him, satisfied that he knew he was inadequate. Maybe if circumstances were different, she could have enjoyed herself, but this had not been about pleasure.

Men, even Timmy, thought with their dicks. She wasn't so naïve as to think she'd secured his loyalty, but she'd done enough. She'd worked him out of her system and she'd taken the first step to breaking him to her will.

As he gazed up at her, dazed a little, she smirked and took his lighter out of his discarded jacket.

His blue eyes hardened. But she wasn't fooled.

* * *

"I will tell you something you already know." She turned, watching him, his cigarette in her mouth. "I loved Lieutenant Kaidan Alenko."

"Is that why you left him to die on Virmire?" He smirked at her, tone innocent of cruel intent. He was a very good pretender.

"Maybe," she admitted, crossing her arms. "But I needed a tech and that bomb needed to go off. It was that simple," she ground out, daring him to disagree.

"So why did you love Lieutenant Alenko? Was he that good in bed? I've looked over his service record. Impressive, but an odd choice. He doesn't seem to fit your…lifestyle."

She laughed, cold and clear, and flicked the cigarette butt onto the floor. "That is…exactly why I appreciated him. He reminded me of every reason why I wanted to save humanity. He was kind, gentle, and goddamn decent. Something neither of us would understand. He was a fucking idealist who thought just because he'd been through some rough patches that he _understood_ how the universe worked." Her smile was bitter and cold. "He loved me because he thought underneath it all, I was a good person, someone he needed to save."

"A novel idea," he admitted. "I never thought you would look for a white knight."

"He was a blind fool." Her words were gentle, her teeth were bared. "And in the end, even if he claimed to understand my decision, I broke his bleeding heart before I sentenced him to death. _That_ is the kind of lover I am."

Harsh and cold and magnificent as the void of space.

Shepard believed in taking what she could get, where she could find it. She never believed in perfection or happily ever after. Shepard has loved many men, but she has always loved pragmatism more.

* * *

Renegade!Shepard fought me a lot. I know what I wanted this piece to be, but I don't know if it actually succeeds. Bah. I am cynic!Sensoo.


	3. The Long View

A/N: OK, you've heard me bitch about the other two. I really liked how this one turned out. I have to admit it was inspired by callalili's _Dreadnaught:Veritas_ chapter of the _Flotilla_ piece. Go read it.

* * *

Grunt/Samara: PG-13 for language and sexual implications?

* * *

It started with death. For Urdnot Grunt, most things did. Okeer's death led, in a roundabout way, to his birth. The genophage, the death of his resilient species, led, in another not-so-roundabout way, to his creation. And when Shepard had awakened him, his thoughts muddily violent, his world no longer a glass case, they had both mocked death, balancing on the edge of a blade.

His fists. Shepard's gun. It would have been a short pointless struggle, spraying the cargo hold with bone and fluids. Shepard was smart and fast, but he had a redundant nervous system and hands that could rend metal.

Bunkered down in the cargo hold, Grunt often wonders who would have won that confrontation. But he does not regret it going the way it did. Not now. Before, it had irked him that a soft, smooth human got the drop on him and sweet talked him out of violence. Now he knows better – Shepard takes him on exciting adventures and lets him kill great big things. Shepard is a battlemaster without equal. But Shepard is not the cause of his dissatisfaction. Something other than battle-lust eats away at his contentment.

Clan Urdnot will endure for thousands of years. The crew of the Normandy has maybe another century at most, if this mission doesn't kill them all. He doesn't care about longevity. He is young and krogan, nearly invincible. But realizing that everyone around him is transient, that maybe one day Shepard won't be fit to lift a pistol – that is a sobering thought. His krantt will not be with him forever - they are all so short-lived.

Except for her.

The crazy asari. The rigid justicar. That quad-busting, fun-sucking, tight-assed tentacle-headed bitch. She is all cold-calm and untouchable, steely under his hide like a knife through his crest. She sits for hours on end staring at nothing. She kills people for having fun. She is sick, boring, and so subtly twisted (_If you reject my doctrine of peace and mercy – I will kill you_); sometimes he wants nothing more than to head butt her through the observatory window.

But only sometimes, and that is not nearly often enough.

For this, he has to blame Okeer.

Being tank-grown has its advantages. There are many long-winded lessons he has avoided sitting through – the words and images directly implanted in his brain. History. Combat. Science. Vast archives of knowledge have been uploaded into his mind – it takes some concentration to reach the thoughts and most of the time he lacks the patience to do so. But sometimes he can focus long enough to extract something new and useful. Sometimes things come to him on their own.

Hatred for salarians and turians had grown almost overnight. There was the knowledge that he should hate them, and then there was the moment when everything clicked into place, like a fully assembled assault rifle.

Humans are a vague concept – soft, squishy cannon fodder.

Volus and hanar are downright hilarious.

Asari are altogether different.

Asari _are_ different, my boy, he hears Okeer's outlandishly smug voice rasping in his head.

The first images are violent – slender asari commandos wreathed in blue light ripping apart krogans, salarians, turians - anything, using only their minds. Their forms are bony and anorexic. Their tiny faces are fierce. Their skin is too smooth.

Beautiful, aren't they? Okeer sounds amused. The ghost of the dirty old bastard lives on in his mind.

He sees krogan and asari wrestling in the dirt, delicate violet and blue skin chafing against leathery scales. Mind-melting joining. Loud squeals from the baser act, so high-pitched they make his teeth hurt.

Okeer had been very thorough with his education. He knows the proper ways to court a fertile female of his own kind, to appear strong and worthy, to make the experience mutually enjoyable – because if the female is unsatisfied, he will not get a second chance. He even knows the mating rites of old, archaic and almost obsolete because the females have all the power these days. He knows how to posture, when to give, and which positions are most likely to result in a successful fertilization.

The experience with the asari was less formal, less clinical, and far more…pleasurable.

He sees her, Rana Thanoptis – the name comes unbidden – massaging Okeer's crest, her eyes black, her skin as pale like ice. Briefly he feels their connection, her tendrils latching onto his, no Okeer's consciousness. It is something deeper than rutting, more awe-inspiring than space: their eternity that stretches on beyond time and death and into his own life.

_Great_, Grunt's own inner voice grumbles, _on top of delusions of grandeur, you inherited your dad's asari fetish. _

Grunt does not like his newly-developed inner voice. Sometimes it tells him not to rush headfirst into battle, to be canny and cautious, to restrain himself; it sounds a lot like Shepard. There are too many voices in his head. It is easier if he doesn't think at all.

But she's there too, silent and watchful, an unwelcome sentinel. She glows blue, like eezo and turian blood and clean water.

He likes watching her in battle – there's a tautness in her limbs and a commanding grace that no one else on the ship can replicate. Shepard is a presence, one that strikes like a storm, but his battlemaster doesn't make fighting look like dancing. The drell assassin is very limber, but he draws no attention to himself, dissolving into shadow and wind. When the justicar fights, he can't look away. Sometimes, in the heat of battle, the serenity melts off her face and he sees just passionate she can be. It's then that her alien countenance and her small soft body don't seem so disappointing. Her kills are always lightning quick but beautiful. If Shepard takes them both into battle together, he fights harder, louder, better, just so she'll notice him. It's not the smoothest tactic, though it is the most straightforward.

But after the battle, she is always stony-cool and untouchable and he's left frustrated and wishing he was back on Tuchanka where he could face another thresher maw or a camp full of curious female krogan. He wishes he'd never seen an asari before. He wishes that back on Omega, Shepard would have chosen the slick, seductive, she-varren Morinth instead of Samara.

He could smell the difference. Morinth's scent had been sickly sweet, an intoxicating head trip – like uncut batarian ale spiked with red sand. Dangerous, but ultimately something he could resist. Samara was just Samara, leather, ozone, and forests after the rain.

Urdnot Grunt has spent a lot of time becoming what he is. He has the corpses of thousands of clutchmates behind him. He completed his Rite of Passage covered in the blood of a thresher maw. He earned what no other tankborn krogan could. But when she looks at him, he wants to be more than just a krogan. More than a tankborn. More than an Urdnot. More than he is. Worse, he doesn't understand why.

When he dents the bulkhead of the cargo hold and EDI sharply tells him to desist, he wonders if this is another form of madness.

_Adolescence_ as Shepard's turian calls it.

* * *

The first time he ventures out of his normal routine – cargo hold, elevator, mess hall, refresher – is to see the starboard observation deck.

She sits, back to him, contemplating the vastness of space. Or sleeping.

He steps inside, because the observational deck isn't exactly hers. People come to look at stuff. Like stars. And space. Because the endless void is oh so interesting to stare into. The doors whoosh shut behind him.

"Grunt." She doesn't sound surprised and he knows no one else on this ship makes quite as much noise as he does. "This is a surprise. What are you doing here?" She slowly rises, languid and peaceful, but he tenses – this is the first time he has been alone with her. His tongue feels fat in his mouth and he has never been good with words.

"Just…seeing the rest of the ship. Got…curious," he mumbles.

She turns to face him and he tries to stare right through her. He tries not to look at her head spikes, or her tiny waist, or the expanse of all that vulnerable silky skin.

She is waiting.

The silence grows between them, thick and unwieldy.

"Great view," he tries again, most definitely not staring at the plunging vee of her armor. Is he staring? Yes, he must be because the swell of her breasts look oh so inviting and he wonders how she'd feel if he…

She clears her throat and he realizes that yes indeed, he is staring.

"I should go…kill things." The words are out and as soon as they leave his mouth he knows they won't impress her or endear him to her. He turns on his heels and stalks out, already cursing his bumbling, Okeer's imprints, and the inscrutable workings of the asari mind.

It is not his way to ruminate, to dwell on past missteps, but when he does, he is no better than the drell. Worse, he is still unsure what he could have done differently. Her ways, her body, her mind are too foreign to him. He understands the mechanics of sex. He does not understand the rituals of courtship.

* * *

One cycle later, the door to the cargo bay opens. And instead of Shepard or one of the nervous, delicate human engineers, she is there, watching him.

He still doesn't know what to say to her.

"I am here, exploring the rest of the ship," she says lightly.

"OK. Not much to see here," he mumbles, and then winces inwardly. A pyjack would be better with words and for one rare moment, he envies Shepard's talent with them.

"The view here is…somewhat lacking, I admit," Samara smiles casually, and Grunt feels the blood pounding in his head.

No one finds krogan…pretty. He knows this. He doesn't expect her to be so crass as to point it out. A growl begins form in his gut, angry and embarrassed.

"You should come up to the observatory again. Sometimes, when we orbit planets, the view then can be quite beautiful," she continues, as if she can't hear it. "Though it is easier to meditate on the vastness of space."

The growl lowers to a rumble. Grunt stares as she smiles (_centuries_ of cunning and experience in that smile), and walks away, her hips swaying.

* * *

He does not go right away. Okeer taught him that much and he has his dignity. Another cycle passes before he can wait no longer.

This time when he goes into the observatory, he plunks down beside her, unable to cross his legs quite like she does. His hide scrapes at the metal floor. She inclines her head toward him.

"You seem troubled, Grunt. Meditation soothes the mind."

He opens his mouth to tell her to stuff it. Krogans don't do that kind of thing. Krogans don't sit still for hours lost in their own minds. But something, Okeer's wisdom, Shepard's skill, Samara's calm, something silences him.

"All right," he manages.

She talks to him, her voice rich and sweet. She talks about centering oneself, about touching the edges of eternity. She talks a lot and half of what she says is lost on him anyway. They both know this. But he tries to listen – he takes deep slow breaths and closes his eyes. It is strange, he reflects, and thinks of Urdnot Wrex who is also oddly calm and thoughtful for a krogan. He thinks of time spent with aliens and realizes just how much he can learn – more surprisingly, he finds he is not disinclined to do so.

And they sit together, the silence easier, her presence hot and bright beside him.

* * *

But Grunt does not _like_ to meditate. He has no illusions of calm and peace. Blood and adrenaline give him meaning. Shepard gives him direction. Clan Urdnot gives him belonging. Samara brings him dissatisfaction. For that he should break her skinny neck.

But he returns regularly. He does not have the discipline to stay away.

* * *

It is likely she knows why he comes, but she has never mentioned it. Initially he looks for pity or some sort of intent, a reason to stop these visits. Smooth and quiet as a lake-rolled stone, she betrays nothing. She speaks of meditation, discipline, her goddamned Code, and sometimes, if he's managed to be inoffensive, she talks about her life. Sometimes, if he can find the right words, he asks questions.

Unbroken and tenuous, there is intimacy in quiet. It is not truly silent –his breathing is rough and ragged compared to hers and her biotics hum at a high frequency, stirring the thoughts in his brain. But they sit there together and still years apart, and Grunt wonders if there's any way to bridge the gap, better yet, if there's any reason.

He understands mating and lust, at least sometimes. These things pass. Infatuation is cured with time. But time does not seem to be fixing any of this – time amplifies the constancy of it all. Time has passed and he still wants her. Time is not his friend.

And yet it is. Because now, there is something where there was nothing. Now she smiles at him, and his hearts clench so hard he forgets to breathe. Because those smiles, : they are just for him.

This is weak, but he fights harder because of it.

This is futile, but those are his favorite battles.

This is unnatural, but who is he to point fingers?

* * *

But the peace eats away at him, and he feels like he is losing a part of himself. He is no less ferocious in battle, but after spending so much time with her there are times when he does not crave the violence so much. It is un-krogan and it bothers him.

The effect is not without its benefits. In return, his head is clearer and he thinks, really thinks about the information Okeer has given him. He thinks about the genophage and Shepard's salarian. He thinks about Cerberus and what kind of enemy they would make. He thinks about Urdnot Wrex and is beginning to see the wisdom and ambition of the older krogan's goals.

His world expands, and he must grow to keep up with it.

"Take them a dead one," he says one day as Shepard complains to the turian about the Council's thickheaded refusal to acknowledge the Reaper threat.

The commander stares at him.

"Take them a dead Collector," he repeats himself slowly, though Shepard is not an idiot. "Give them…the genetic information. Since they're Protheans and apparently being an ancient race of giant bugs wins instant prestige – despite the fact they still managed to go extinct. Also, it would be hilarious if you just dumped a decomposing cockroach body in front of them and told them to sniff it."

The turian chokes out a laugh, but Shepard looks thoughtful, and favors Grunt with a lingering stare.

"I might do that, Grunt," Shepard says. "It's a good idea. Thanks."

Grunt smirks.

Sniff that, turian.

* * *

"When facing possible death, the strangest thoughts come to a person," she says one day, after the Collectors have taken their human crew and they stand in the shadow of certain destruction. .

He too is agitated – the ship still stinks of Collectors and Shepard is making preparations to go through the Omega Relay.

"In my travels, I came across the strangest dish. I think it was fish, pyjack meat, and the secret ingredient being some sort of Tuchankan tummy-tingling sauce. Eating it was…an experience."

"The idea of going into battle to the death makes you hungry?" He is smiling widely as she glances at him. And it takes her a moment to laugh.

He is getting better at making jokes.

* * *

She is rigid as fire-hardened stone and violence is her answer to anything that offends her – she does not back down. Grunt respects this, even if her Code is ridiculous and her demeanor hypocritical. Those two reasons, he accepts begrudgingly, are why this infatuation is at all bearable.

Matriarchs aren't maidens, Okeer reminds him. Matriarchs require more than a bold attitude and a cheeky slap on the ass. They want to talk, to connect, to commit. They tie down their partners, an anchor around the neck. But in the same regard, they like fortresses, loyal and wise and fiercely protective of their own.

They are worthy…companions.

The echo of Okeer's feelings is almost like the satisfaction of becoming Clan Urdnot.

Almost, but not quite.

* * *

They sit there, the oldest and the youngest creatures on the ship. They stand diametrically opposed to each other on many spectrums. The distance is across species, centuries, philosophy, and six inches of floor.

"I gave up everything to kill my daughter," she says. "Okeer gave up everything, even things that weren't his to give, so that you would live." Her tone is mild, not accusing.

Grunt doesn't know where this is going, so he waits. He is getting better at patience. But eventually he realizes he is meant to talk, so he gives an answer.

"Krogan have more trouble creating children. Okeer's duty became an obsession that helped no one. It's different," he grunts.

She stares at him for a moment. Something flickers across her face, but it is gone before he can even try to recognize it.

"I suppose you're right." Her smile is hesitant, but it is for him.

He knows he has missed something, but it would be a lie to say he doesn't feel satisfied.

* * *

Okeer gave him a lot of useless trivia: cultural antiquities of his clan, thirty seven ways to blind a batarian, and a collection of a traditional krogan recipes. Krogans do not have cuisine. Krogans have food – if they are feeling really ambitious, they might cook it first.

Gardner is gone and he has the memories of a dish matching Samara's description. Pyjack meat from Tuchanka. Fish fresh from Shepard's private tank. Tummy-Tingling Tuchanka sauce in the cook's spice cabinet.

He sears the meat and fish in oil. He does his best not to burn it – a little black adds color, right? The spicy sauce come next and by the time he's done, the softer squishier species with vulnerable mucus membranes have evacuated the area. The AI seems to understand that this is not a biological attack, but rather a foray into krogan cooking and so panic is averted somewhat – not that there are many people left to start good old fashioned stampede.

He doesn't understand the fuss. It smells good to him.

He spoons the slop onto two plates and, as an afterthought, brings the spoon with him. He goes straight to observation deck.

She turns when he enters and blinks numerous times.

"Okeer used to make this. I think." He proudly offers her the plate and the spoon.

She takes them both.

They sit, facing the observation window. Grunt slurps his down, savoring the heat of the spices in his mouth. He likes his meat and fish a little less cooked, but it isn't bad. He steals a glance at Samara who is gingerly picking at the food.

She coughs a few times, eyes watering as she swallows.

He watches eagerly. Did he add enough sauce? It's a little mild for him but…

"It's…almost exactly how I remember it. Stronger than I expected," her voice sounds rough. "Thank you, Grunt."

Pride and heat well up in his chest. She can't eat very much – being an asari and all – but he finishes her plate and is rewarded with a smile and a tentative pat on the back.

Smiles _and_ touches: this is progress.

* * *

When he sleeps, he dreams. Sometimes he sees asari as Okeer did, lithe dancers, fleet-footed mercs, imposing matriarchs: they flit through his head, teasing and quick. He knows how the look nude, creamy blue-violet skin, long lithe legs, and soft round breasts. Coupling must be done carefully though he knows, somehow, that the luxury of asari skin is far more decadent than the roughness of krogan scales. He aches for it; the next time they go to Omega, he knows what he will do. There is no shame in it. He is young. He is male.

But there is another side to it, something he can't quite grasp in fingers. Asari _meld_. Their minds merge. There is intimacy and foreignness and a connection he isn't sure he wants to forge. Like stepping off land and plunging into dark rushing water. Contentment, yearning, lust, memories, they swirl together in a tangled net that threatens to overwhelm him.

And there is space, endless and black before him.

_Eternity to embrace. _

The concept makes him feel very small. It gives him perspective. It's like staring through the scope of a sniper rifle, the expanse of the terrain laid out clearly before him. It is not his style or his worldview, but he understands. He is here. She is there. And in between there are pitfalls and traps, varren and thresher maw. The distance will take time to cross, but he can wait. He is krogan. She is asari. They have time.

The afterimage of eternity is burned deep into his brain. Now that he has seen it, some part of it, he cannot walk away. This is something to work toward, to strive for, cultivate and create – hard concepts for a krogan to grasp, but no less important. This is a path he can't take in straight lines and shotgun blasts: foreign and alien, but inevitable as death. This is life from the long view.

Urdnot Grunt's next steps don't feel so blind.

* * *

A/N: So I don't actually believe Samara would ever do anything untoward with Grunt. It's a crush. And Grunt needs to grow up ( and he needs to stop bellowing "I AM KROGAN" every time he shoots something, but I digress). I often wonder how Wrex turned out so smart (because face it, most of the krogans you meet are pretty dumb). Maybe it was age and Clan Urdnot. Recalling the Aleena story, I just think he spent a lot of time with the asari.

OK, I have Ashley/Jacob, Joker/Tali, and Thane/Shepard/Garrus fics in the works. Miranda/Zaeed, Kelly/Conrad Verner, & a few others are spinning around my head trying to escape. Let me know what interests you and give me some suggestions.


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